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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24801301">The Light in Other Men's Hearts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet'>Taste_is_Sweet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gifts [14]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Ripper Street</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Angst and Feels, Because Ripper Street, Canonical Character Death, Community: intoabar, Crossover, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I'm Sorry, M/M, Misery, Oh My God, Past Character Death, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Ships That Pass in the Night</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:48:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,568</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24801301</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Edmund Reid has the Blessing of seeing people as they truly are. It doesn't always make a difference. </p>
<p>
  <i>("You will do your best," Edmund said. Because his Blessing couldn't reveal the future, but it could assure him of that much. "You will do your best, and perhaps you'll fail. But you will have done everything you can to ensure all of your men come home."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>There was another moment of silence. Perhaps Bucky swallowed, though Edmund could neither see nor hear it. "That doesn't feel like much," he said.)</i>
</p>
<p>Written for my <a href="https://intoabar.dreamwidth.org/">Dreamwidth Intoabar Community</a> prompt: Bucky Barnes meets...Edmund Reid.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bennet Drake &amp; Homer Jackson &amp; Edmund Reid, Past Homer Jackson/Edmund Reid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gifts [14]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/14285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>A Ficathon Goes Into A Bar</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Light in Other Men's Hearts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <b>This story is set in an AU where 10 percent of the population has superhuman abilities, known as Gifts (or Blessings).</b>
</p>
<p>Hello, everyone! I'm excited about this, because it's the first thing I've been able to write in nearly a year. The last fic I posted was on August 21. :( But now I have this one! :D</p>
<p>Coincidentally, both these stories were for the Intoabar Community, which has always been my favorite challenge. I'm grateful to the mods for continuing it and helping me get my mojo back. ♥ I also want to thank my awesome sister <a href="http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky">Squeaky</a> and my wonderful friend <a href="http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Shazrolane/pseuds/Shazrolane">Shazrolane</a> for being incredibly kind and supportive about my writing. And they both read this fic and liked it, so hopefully you all will too. :)</p>
<p>I AM SO GLAD I WAS ABLE TO WRITE SOMETHING, GUYS. Seriously, you have no idea. It's been a long, long time.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>London, 1943</i>
</p>
<p>That idiot boy was going to burn the pub down.</p>
<p>Edmund Reid watched with a kind of annoyed resignation as the soldier—an American; why were the biggest imbeciles always Americans?—concentrated with all the squint-eyed focus of the extremely inebriated on the tip of his friend's cigarette. It kept flaring to life, ignited by the soldier's Blessing and inspiring great cries of triumph, only to die a moment later to equally robust howls of dismay. The long table around the two young men was packed full with soldiers, cheek-to-jowl like fish in a tin. They were chanting, "Light it! Light it! Light it!", and pounding the table with such enthusiasm Edmund had little doubt they'd smash it to kindling, which would certainly make it easier for the Firebrand to produce his inevitable calamity.</p>
<p>The din, coupled with the general clamor and the smoke-fogged air of the pub, was intolerable. Edmund had come here with a headache, and had only succeeded in making it worse.</p>
<p>Of course, all that was nothing compared to how the lads' hearts burned inside them, like fires already ignited. The brightness, the beautiful, twisting vibrancy in all of them, just waiting to be extinguished, was far, far worse than any noise or threat of true conflagration.</p>
<p>Outside waited the War, ready to gobble them all up like wolves. </p>
<p>The entire building was packed just as full as that table, nearly all with soldiers in the throws of the same wild revelry tinged with desperation. There were some civilians crammed in among them, most young and equal in their enthusiasm. The air reeked of smoke, sweat and beer.</p>
<p>Very rare were those who had foolishly come here for a drink without intention to participate. Such as himself.</p>
<p>All their heartlights flared with such vibrancy that it was as if the building were already burning. Edmund was forced to close his eyes for a moment, just to center himself.</p>
<p>At the table, the young Firebrand finally succeeded in lighting his companion's cigarette without immolating the building, albeit with such vigor that the entire thing burst into flame. The other soldier, a sergeant, spit it out with a yell, then extinguished the still-burning cigarette by slapping it with an ashtray. Edmund could see his lips moving as he laughingly admonished his friend, but couldn't hear him over the general caterwauling hilarity of the others. The soldier's mouth was red with burns up to the base of his nose. He didn't seem to notice. Perhaps he was too drunk for it to bother him.</p>
<p>Edmund rubbed his forehead and looked down to his nearly empty pint; one of more than had been wise. He'd come here to ease his solitude tonight, which was, these days, a near-perpetual companion. Obviously that had been a mistake. He had nothing in common with these loud, vibrant, doomed souls who were less than half his age. He wasn't sure he'd ever had anything in common with them.</p>
<p>If Jackson were here, he would have clapped Edmund hard on the back and smirkingly admonished him to stop being such an old man. Drake would have said something snidely cutting to Jackson in Edmund's defense, and surely been ignored or insulted for it. Jackson's and Drake's friendship had always been equal parts animosity and affection.</p>
<p>Drake would have been concerned about how much Edmund was drinking, assuredly. But currently there was no one else living to care.</p>
<p>It almost didn't hurt anymore, to think of them. It was almost entirely with fondness and not pain, after so many decades, for Edmund to picture Jackson's smug grin, or the mocking glimmer in his dark eyes. Or to remember Drake's stalwart loyalty and the constant melancholy behind his smile. But they were both long gone. Edmund was 88, and he'd been alone far, far longer than any of these young, shining soldiers had been alive.</p>
<p>It had been a bad idea to come here, even beyond the noise, reek of smoke and his blossoming headache. Edmund had been born with the dubious Blessing of seeing the light in men's hearts; all save his own. But he knew his heart was a dark, unhappy thing without needing to see it. And he was fairly sure it had always been so, to one extent or another.</p>
<p>Edmund stood to leave, knees creaking painfully with the movement. He held the back of his chair a moment, gathering his balance, then carefully sought his cane from where he'd hooked it behind him against the wall. It made the arthritis in his fingers hurt, a small flare next to the calamity inside his skull. His head felt like a newly-collapsed roof, but if he stood there cataloguing all his various infirmities he'd be there all night, and all he wanted right then was to go home.</p>
<p>The streetlamps and any lights on the outside of buildings were dark and cold, in effort to thwart the German bombers. Edmund was a few steps out the door, squinting painfully in the vicious, near all-encompassing darkness of the Blackout, save for the pale flickers of what the posters called 'glimmer lighting' in the distance of the nearest road junction. Edmund fumbled for his tissue-covered hand torch, before he realized he'd forgotten it on the table inside.</p>
<p>Turing around to return for it required steeling himself and judicious use of his cane. But the moment he managed the shuffling pivot he crashed into someone exiting the pub.</p>
<p>Edmund, old and rickety and in his cups, rebounded like a doll and would have fallen if his accidental assailant hadn't caught him. Large, strong hands closed firmly round Edmund's upper arms.</p>
<p>"Fuck. Are you all right?" The voice was a rough-hewn American drawl. Instantly, achingly recognizable. And he was of a height, though once Edmund had needed to look down to meet his eyes. And his heart…</p>
<p>"Homer," Edmund breathed. "Homer Jackson. It's you."</p>
<p>There was a metered silence, and then the man said, "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know who that is. My name's Bucky."</p>
<p>"Jackson?" Edmund said, because the man's words meant nothing when set against the lighted, pulsing frenzy of his heart. Homer's heart. It might have been decades, but Edmund had never forgotten the way his heartlight leapt and danced, bright and consuming as a bonfire….</p>
<p>But, no. It couldn't be. Wasn't. Homer was <i>dead.</i> Year's dead. Long gone. This soldier's heart blazed like Homer's had when Edmund had known him, that was all. It wasn't even the first time Edmund had seen the same flickers and hues of ironclad stubbornness and sharp, fiery intelligence; or such flares of courage and abiding loyalty. There were differences, even so. Homer had only been truly, undyingly loyal to one single person. And it had not been Edmund Reid. His courage did not include a willingness to sacrifice himself, the way this stranger's did. Homer would risk his life; he had done so many times. But this soldier was willing to lose it. And this stranger was not, and never had been, nearly as much of a liar.</p>
<p>"Hey. Hey, buddy. Are you okay?"</p>
<p>Edmund realized, slowly, that he was still being held up by this complete stranger, and that he'd managed to place the palm of his hand over the man's heart. It was the easiest way to get a complete reading, but not something he would normally do without consent outside of an interrogation.</p>
<p>He whipped his hand back, mortified, shutting down his ability as much as he was ever able. The light from the soldier's—Bucky, he'd said—the light from Bucky's heart faded to the same white spark that represented the life and vitality in everyone.</p>
<p>Bucky's eyes weren't even the same color, he realized. Jackson's eyes had been brown. And now that Edmund was truly looking at him, he could see the fading red of a burn on his lips and under his nose. This was the young sergeant who'd been humoring the Firebrand inside.</p>
<p>"I-I'm sorry," Edmund said, stammering like a boy. Humiliation blasted up his spine to lodge like a bullet in his already belabored brain. He gagged suddenly, miserably, and barely managed to turn away before he vomited: bile and old beer in his mouth and spattering his polished shoes.</p>
<p>He'd dropped his cane when he and Bucky collided. The soldier was still supporting him, compounding Edmund's shame. Wordlessly, Bucky pressed a white handkerchief into Edmund's nearer hand. Edmund nodded his gratitude, spitting before wiping his mouth. He was very careful to fold the square around the wet spot before giving it back.</p>
<p>"Thank you," he managed finally. His legs felt like rubber and he leaned heavily on Bucky as he straightened. "I dropped my cane."</p>
<p>"I'll get it. Here, sit down." Bucky all but dragged Edmund over to a nearby bench, settling him carefully as fine china. Edmund wondered with distant indignity what a sight he must make, for this utter stranger to be treating him with such gentleness and decorum. Then again, he'd seen Bucky's heart. This was who Bucky was: the evidence of it become action.</p>
<p>Edmund was so deep in this thought that he startled when Bucky placed the cane next to his hand.</p>
<p>"Here." Bucky held it until Edmund could grasp it firmly, then sat down next to him on the bench. "There's your flashlight too. I mean, your torch." He put it next to Edmund's leg. There was more than enough light to see the man's wince. "I was trying to bring it to you. I'm sorry I dropped it. I'm pretty sure it broke." He undid the buttons of his jacket, clearly to get his wallet. "How much did it cost? I can—"</p>
<p>Edmund put up his hand to stop him, shaking his head. The space around him followed the movement unpleasantly, but he ignored it. He made sure his cane wouldn't slip down to the pavement, then picked up his hand torch and examined it, squinting in the low light. <a href="http://www.flashlightmuseum.com/Eveready-Flashlight-4753-3-Cell-Art-Deco-Lantern-3D-Unit-Cell-1925">It was an old model, one he'd bought new in 1925,</a> mostly because he'd admired the design. The tissue paper over the lens was torn, and the glass and bulb had shattered.</p>
<p>"It's quite all right," he said, putting the broken torch on the ground between his feet. He summoned a smile though nothing in him could make it genuine tonight. "You've surely saved me a grave injury. And if I hadn't been foolish enough to leave the torch behind, you wouldn't have brought it to me just as I was attempting to retrieve it. If anything, the fault is mine."</p>
<p>Bucky did not look mollified. "You sure? How are you gonna get home without it?"</p>
<p>Kind of him, to be so concerned. Then again, Edmund had seen that inside of him already. "I'll be fine," he said, pulling forth another smile. "I don't live far from here, and there's enough ambient light."</p>
<p>"If you say so," Bucky said, sounding anything but convinced. He increasingly reminded Edmund of Drake as well, which was a different if no less intense pain. Drake had also possessed that particular tenacity. "Can I help you get there? You seemed a little…Uh…." He trailed off, no doubt searching for a polite term to encompass a drunken old man retching in the street.</p>
<p>"It's nothing," Edmund said, waving the boy off again. "It was the noise and temperature in there, as much as anything. A few minutes in cool air and quiet and I'll be fine." He drew a breath. "I'm sorry to have upset your celebration. You needn't stay out here on my account," he added quickly, forcing yet more joviality. "I'm sure your incendiary friend is wondering what became of you."</p>
<p>Bucky's expression was amused embarrassment. "You saw that?" He smirked ruefully. "We're shipping out to Italy in the morning. Pinky—Private Pinkerton, I mean—he's real powerful, but his control's lousy. Thought it'd be a good idea for him to practice somewhere it wasn't life or death."</p>
<p>Because it would be soon enough went unsaid, but not unheard. Edmund nodded. "You're a good man," he said, then ignored Bucky's quiet snort. Funny how the finest ones never believed that of themselves, whereas the most vile always did. For a moment Edmund considered explaining his Blessing, but just the thought of doing so exhausted him.</p>
<p>"You are," he told him instead. "You're very much like my friend. The man I thought you were, just now," he explained needlessly. "He would have tried to train your Firebrand in the same way. Only he would've been so drunk his entire face could have burned up and he'd scarcely have noticed."</p>
<p>Bucky laughed, just as Edmund hoped he would, though all Edmund felt was a twist of fresh pain. Funny how you could not think of someone for whole days, entire weeks at a time, and yet still become blindsided by grief.</p>
<p>"Well, I guess I'll take that as a compliment. The fact I resemble him, I mean. Not the setting-you-face-on-fire part," Bucky said, grinning. He graciously did not ask where this friend was. Or mention how Edmund's voice briefly fissured as he spoke of him.</p>
<p>"You should," Edmund said softly.</p>
<p>"I will."</p>
<p>They settled into a strangely comfortable silence, though Edmund's was tinged with melancholy. Bucky put his elbows on the back of the bench and tilted up his chin. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly into the evening air. "It's a nice night." </p>
<p>He was quite beautiful, Edmund thought: solid and strong and present in a way Edmund himself hadn't felt for a very long time. He flicked his eyes to Bucky's chest, gaze settling greedily on the endless, bright flicker of the man's heart. "It is," he responded, a beat too late.</p>
<p>Luckily, if Bucky noted his lapse he chose not to remark on it. The quiet settled around them again, save for the occasional creak of an automobile as it crept along the dark streets, or the click of peoples' shoes as they passed, or the bursts of light and noise every time someone opened a door. The stars shone on overhead, as heedless to the woes and cares of this tiny blue planet as they ever had been. Edmund did his best not to dwell on his overly-long past and curbed his instinct to touch Bucky and examine his heart again. Homer was dead. No heartlight could ever change that, no matter how close the resemblance.</p>
<p>"I'm scared," Bucky said at last, so softly perhaps he'd hoped Edmund's decrepit ears might not have heard him. His head still tilted back, as if he were bequeathing his words to the sky. "I'm a sergeant. And all those men in there…Fuck, all those <i>kids.</i> They seem like kids. Most of 'em are my age, or close enough. But…" He sighed, lowered his head and rubbed his forehead as it he were in pain. It bumped the brim of his cap. "Yeah. They're kids. And they're all depending on me to keep 'em alive. And I don't know if I can."</p>
<p>"You will do your best," Edmund said. Because his Blessing couldn't reveal the future, but it could assure him of that much. "You will do your best, and perhaps you'll fail. But you will have done everything you can to ensure all of your men come home."</p>
<p>There was another moment of silence. Perhaps Bucky swallowed, though Edmund could neither see nor hear it. "That doesn't feel like much," he said.</p>
<p>"I know." All Edmund Reid had ever done was his best, and in the end his best had lost him everything. "But at the end, when everything else falls around you, it will be the one thing you have: The sure knowledge that you did everything you could to keep the wolves at bay."</p>
<p>"Does it help?"</p>
<p>Edmund opened his mouth, then shut it again without speaking. He thought of Bennet Drake, whose courage had flickered out so suddenly Edmund hadn't seen it, only been there in time to find his body. Or Homer Jackson, who Edmund had traded his future to save, only to lose him anyway. Or Mathilda, his daughter who had fled from him so completely he didn't even know if she still lived.</p>
<p>He had done everything he could to keep the wolves at bay, and in the end they had come despite everything.</p>
<p>"There are times it offers comfort," Edmund said.</p>
<p>"Fuck," Bucky murmured, fervently.</p>
<p>Edmund patted his leg, leashing his Blessing so he wouldn't be tempted by the man's heartlight. "You will survive this bloody, merciless war, Sergeant," he said. He didn't have to force the conviction into his voice. "You will survive, and you will save as many of your men as you can. And one day you will look back upon it with pride."</p>
<p>Bucky lifted his head sharply to stare at him. "Are you Clairvoyant?"</p>
<p>"No." Edmund shook his head. "But I can tell. I've lived long enough to know what shines in someone's heart. And you will not let them down, Bucky. Even unto the jaws of death, you will not let your men down."</p>
<p>Bucky put his palm over his chest, as if he could feel the gleam of which Edmund spoke. The white light flickered over and though his hand like fire. "Doesn't feel like it." Bucky made a sound somewhat approximating a laugh. "Feels like I just want to go home and crawl under my bed."</p>
<p>"We all feel like that, from time to time," Edmund said. "It's what you do that matters."</p>
<p>Bucky nodded. "Okay," he said, softly.</p>
<p>Edmund patted his leg and pulled back his hand. "Good lad."</p>
<p>"Thanks," Bucky said. "I, uh. I know this ain't actually confession." He gave a sad attempt at a chuckle. "Sorry to make you listen to me whining when you weren't feeling well."</p>
<p>"Nonsense," Edmund said briskly. He patted Bucky's shoulder this time, trying not to relish the contact so much. "I told you. I just needed some fresh air and quiet. There was no hardship to letting you unburden yourself." It had been a gift, if anything: this moment of connection between two near-strangers. No one had been interested in Edmund's counsel for a very long time.</p>
<p>"Are you sure you're all right?" Bucky asked again, dogged. Endearing. So much like Drake it made Edmund's lightless heart tight with pain. "Can I walk you home?"</p>
<p>"That's quite unnecessary," Edmund said immediately, because he knew if he said "yes" Bucky would. And letting Bucky into Edmund's shabby, tiny flat would only make the emptiness enormous once he was gone. Loneliness could be supported best when it was not emphasized.</p>
<p>He stood as quickly as he were able, grasping his cane and the bench tightly until he was sure his feet were solid on the ground. His headache had lessened, but remained a merciless ache.</p>
<p>Bucky had stood as well, of course. More from apprehension than politeness, Edmund was certain. "Are you sure?"</p>
<p>"I'm old, not senile," Edmund snapped, then instantly regretted it. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just been a long night. I appreciate your concern, but I will be fine."</p>
<p>"Sure," Bucky said. He stood still, watching as Edmund continued to gather himself. His hands were in his pockets as if to keep himself from reaching out.</p>
<p>"Goodnight, Bucky," Edmund said. He wanted to tell him to be safe; he wanted to tell him a thousand things. But none of it would really be for <i>him,</i> and words had ultimately never made a difference anyway. "Take care," was what he lit upon at last. He meant it, in any case.</p>
<p>"Hey," Bucky said, as Edmund was stepping away, then trotted the few steps so Edmund didn't have to turn to look at him. "Were you a soldier? Is that how come you know? All the stuff you said, I mean. About me surviving."</p>
<p>"I was a policeman," Edmund said. He even managed to smile a little, so many years on. "But it was a very long time ago. I knew soldiers," he added, because that felt important. "I wasn't one, but I knew them. My friends. The man, ah…"</p>
<p>"The one you thought I was?"</p>
<p>Edmund nodded. "The very same."</p>
<p>This time he could see Bucky swallow. "And he lived?"</p>
<p>"Yes," Edmund said. "He survived the war. They both did."</p>
<p>"Well, that's good," Bucky said. He smiled, looking relieved. As if his resemblance to a soldier who'd survived had bestowed him with a kind of protection.</p>
<p>"Yes it was," Edmund said. He had been so grateful to know both men, but he doubted he'd ever let them know it. He'd always been a fool. "Goodnight, Bucky," he said again.</p>
<p>"What about your flashlight?" Bucky asked, because it was still underneath the bench where Edmund had left it. "Don't you want it?"</p>
<p>"No, thank you," Edmund said over his shoulder. "I can make my way just fine."</p>
<p>He walked away, leaving the sergeant behind him. He hadn't even given his name.</p>
<p>It didn't matter, since most likely they would never meet again. Edmund cursed himself for his oversight all the same.</p>
<p>But he made it home without incident, just has he'd said. It was easy enough to find his way in the darkness, guided by the light of other men's hearts.</p>
<p>END</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here is my <a href="https://taste-is-sweet.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>, which is a lot less sad than this fic.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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